Thank You
by Athirae
Summary: Dean Winchester is just an average student who got pulled in with the wrong crowd. He doesn't see a way out. Castiel Novak suffers horrendous abuse at the hands of his uncle and his classmates. He doesn't see a way out, either. But one chance meeting in the school halls has their lives changing for the better. [GRAPHIC MENTIONS OF PHYSICAL/SEXUAL ABUSE, ATTEMPTED SUICIDE, TORTURE]


**A/N: Finally, a high school AU from yours truly. I changed Sioux Falls into a nice small town (like in the show) because I grew up in one and it's easier to write from that point of view and easier on the plot. I don't know how school works in bigger cities and I'd like to remain ignorant. As for Cas and Dean, I've found in most AUs, Cas is typically a nerd or a slut and Dean is either a complete asshole or the most caring guy in the world. I wrote them as happy mediums: Cas is a severely depressed introvert who is physically and sexually abused and is painted as a homosexual whore by nasty rumours while Dean is a dick who fights to balance his morals with his obligations because of the social circle he fell into. Yes, warnings, there is GRAPHIC PHYSICAL AND SEXUAL ABUSE in this story as well as ATTEMPTED SUICIDE and gore. The parts that graphically detail that, from Cas' point of view, will be the sections in entirely italics, so you can skip those if you wish (mentions will be elsewhere, however). Also, some police procedure is fabricated because it's hard to find the right information (and some information varies), especially regarding _attempted _suicide vs. suicide vs. attempted homicide. Because you've read this, I own your soul. I still don't own Supernatural. It's on my bucket list, though, right under _surviving the plague _and _world domination_.**

* * *

_The basement was cold. It was always cold. He lay curled in the corner without any clothes that could protect him from the damp. There was a spider a few feet from his head, but he didn't care. It wasn't what mattered: the basement door was opening, a steady creak until it thumped against the wall, then footsteps down the stairs, one by one, slow and even._

_He closed his eyes._

_Hands were around his neck soon, unfastening the rope looped there. He wore sweaters and high-collared shirts to hide the permanent marks it had left over the years. He wished he could have worn a T-shirt so everyone could see, so someone could know, but just like his suffering, those scars were hidden away._

_"I brought you a gift again," the man above him said. He dutifully sat up and opened his eyes, staring blankly at the lanky, dark-haired man moving a stool to rest in front of him. The man settled onto it and beckoned him to stand. He did. That was when he noticed the box of matches in the older man's hand._

_"Now," the man said, "can you tell me what you did upstairs?"_

_"I…cleaned the dishes," he answered quietly._

_"Wrong," the man said. "Hold out your arm." He did as he was told, and the man struck a match against the side of the box. When he closed his eyes tightly, the man growled, "No, you watch. You need to learn," and no sooner than he pried open his eyelids did the man put the match out against his forearm, right next to the dozens of other fresh marks and the hundreds of other old ones._

_He bit back his scream and forced his eyes to remain open. "I cleaned the dishes," he chanted._

_"No!" Another match was struck and buried against the flesh of his wrist. Without meaning to, he let his arm flinch away._

_"Don't you _dare!_" came the shout. The man grabbed his middle finger and bent it back just enough to hurt without breaking it. "Keep your arm up."_

_He did as he was told, sniffling._

_"Don't cry. You're not good enough for that." Another flame seared the crook of his elbow, and he watched the match fall to the floor amidst the pile that had started earlier that day. "What did you do wrong?"_

_"I chipped a cup!" he cried._

_"Yes." The man smiled. "My favourite cup. You break everything you touch. Your mother. Your father. Me. My things. You destroy it all. Look what you make me do to you. Do you think I want to be like this?"_

_"No." He frantically shook his head._

_"You're right. I don't. And it's all your fault I am. You're a worthless piece of shit and no one loves you. Can you say that for me?"_

_He sobbed. "I'm a worthless piece of shit. No one loves me."_

_Three matches were struck at once and pressed against the fresh mark on his forearm. He screamed this time._

_"Shut the fuck up and stop cursing in my house."_

_"Y-Yes, sir," he stammered through tears._

_"Now get up against the wall. We're not done yet."_

* * *

Dean shoved a piece of toast into his mouth as he slung his bookbag over one shoulder and leaned down to pull the end of his pant leg out of where it had been caught in his boot. Sam was already placing an empty cereal bowl in the sink and grabbing his bag to wait at the door. He was a small thing, a freshman this year with a scrawny frame and a mop of brown hair. Dean had no doubts that he'd hit a growth spurt in the next few years. He brushed the crumbs off his band T-shirt as Bobby came in the room.

"Damn it, boy. You're still here? Do you want an award for the most tardies in one year?"

Sam smirked from the kitchen doorway. "He got that last year."

"Oh shut it, Sammy." Dean glared. "I'm your ride. I'm late. You're late."

"I know." Sam rolled his eyes. "That's why I've never had perfect attendance."

Dean snatched the keys from their hook on the wall. "You ever turn into one of those nerds and I'll shove you in a locker myself."

"You'd do that anyway. You've got a quota to meet." Sam left the doorway.

Dean shook his head to himself. Sam had such a mouth on him anymore. He used to follow Dean around the scrap yard like he was God. Now, all he did was sit in the house, read, generally ignore everyone's presence unless Bobby was showing him a new text he'd gotten for their small library, and make snarky comments. He was lucky Dean loved him enough to keep up with his two jobs, stocking a grocery store on the weekdays and helping Bobby out on the weekends, just to make enough extra cash to buy school supplies, tennis shoes, pay for school trips, and anything else Sam needed because Bobby's job hadn't been lucrative in the last few years.

He finally looked at the keys down in his hands. "Are these…the keys to the Impala?"

Bobby grunted. "Figured you earned it. But I hear you're still beating the snot out of kids at school and I can take 'em right back. I already let the grades slide."

With a smile, Dean ignored him and waved goodbye. Sam was waiting on the porch.

"We're taking the Impala today!"

Sam sighed. "As if I wanted to stick out any more."

* * *

They roared up to the school and parked in the empty south lot because there was a better chance no one would notice their missing parking tag. Sam threw open the door, hopped out, and slammed it shut without a word, rushing up to the school. Any other day, Dean would have followed after him, but he was tired of getting brushed off because Sam didn't want to be seen with him.

Dean removed the keys from the ignition and grabbed his bag from the middle of the front seat. He strolled up to the front doors of the school. With the amount of movement in the main hall, it was obvious the bell had rung, so he headed straight to his first period, P.E.

When he left the locker room, he spotted his group of friends huddled together by the wall where they took roll. He didn't necessarily like them: Al, a crazed-looking sadist; Ariel, a towering black girl with the personality of a rock; Luke, who radiated sunshine and rainbows like a golden child but had the sharpest tongue Dean had ever come across; Naomi, a girl who looked all prim and proper but was a manipulative bitch who usually got others to get down and dirty for her; Christopher, a pudgy kid with a smart mouth who was rumored to sell drugs at the crossroads on the other side of town; and Anna, a girl who could play dumb at the drop of a hat to get out of anything and slept with any guy or girl who was willing—even those who initially weren't.

He hadn't meant to end up in a social circle full of the school's biggest assholes, but when he had two jobs and no time for parties or football games, had terrible grades and halfway decent morals, and had punched a kid back freshman year for insulting Sam when he came with Bobby to pick him up one day—well, that was what he was going to get.

For God's sakes, he wasn't even popular with chicks because he always had to turn them down. Either he was busy or they were busy or Bobby was home or her parents were home or he didn't want his first screw to be in a car or janitor's closet or behind some bushes—and he still wasn't a hundred percent sure which team he batted for but this town would fucking murder him if he wasn't straight—needless to say, the universe hated him and hadn't given him a chance at all in that department. He _really _needed to change that. For Christ's sake, he was a senior this year, graduating in two months.

"Look who finally showed up," Luke called with a charming smile. "Thought you might be skipping out on us to play with that cute little brother of yours."

An arm wrapped around his neck, and a tongue snaked out to lick his ear. "You could always play with me."

Naomi scowled. "Keep it in your pants, Anna. There are more important things than fucking everything with a pulse."

Anna chuckled next to Dean's ear. "Like fucking things without a pulse? I'm sure you know all about that, Naomi." She kissed Dean's cheek absentmindedly and trotted off.

"I beg to differ." Christopher raised a suggestive eyebrow.

"I've seen yours, hotshot," Al said. "Not that impressive."

Christopher shoved him. Al shoved back. "We had a deal! You said you wouldn't say anything."

"Maybe you shouldn't show up naked and high off your ass at my house to make passes at my mother. You really think you had enough to keep me quiet?" Al smirked.

"Then I guess I should tell everyone that you greeted me at the door in footy pyjamas. Quite becoming."

Al's eyes slid into a venomous glare. "You tell anyone else and I'll cut off your dick so everyone can see how small it is."

Dean rubbed a hand over his face. This was his everyday life.

* * *

He walked to school like he did every day, bundled up in a sweater with his beaten up satchel at his side he'd found in a garbage can a few years ago. He had to hide it in the bushes outside the house because his uncle would destroy it if he found it. He would destroy his homework too, which was why he never brought it to the house with him. He did it before school if he had time, during his lunch period, and throughout his other classes, which got him in trouble on a daily basis. None of the teachers really had the heart to make him stop, though.

He pushed open the doors to the main hall and scurried in with his head down, trying to remain unnoticed. A football player knocked into his shoulder and sent him sprawling. A girl to his side kicked his notebook further down the hall with a loud 'oops.' Another man stepped in front of him so his face was level with his crotch and asked him if he wanted to help him out since he was already on his knees. Several laughed. Several called him a faggot and a slut. He was used to it. The names had started four years ago during his freshman year when some boys had caught the bruises on his hips out of the corner of their eyes in the locker rooms even though he changed discreetly. They told the teachers they didn't want a homo changing with them. The teachers told him that to keep the situation calm he needed to change before or after everyone else. He changed in the bathrooms instead. It didn't matter.

He picked himself up, grabbed his notebook, and hurried down the hall. He'd always been alone. From pre-k to fifth grade, he kept to himself in class and on the playground. The few times people had tried to talk to them, he scared them off by telling them things like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and all of that wasn't real. He told them Christmas was just a time their parents spoiled them and lied to them. He told them their parents actually horded their teeth in a jar somewhere. He told them his uncle had held him down and pulled his out when they were loose, and sometimes when they weren't. He told them he didn't have parents. They called him a liar. A freak. He had stopped talking. In junior high, he stuck out. He wasn't popular or good-looking, didn't have expensive clothes, couldn't go to any events, never spoke, always had weird bruises which got him called _emo_, read too much, didn't know music or television shows or movies, didn't know social cues. In high school, he became the resident freak, the faggot, the back alley slut, the punching bag because no matter what they did or what marks they left, the faculty didn't complain because his uncle didn't complain.

He worked on his Calculus for twenty minutes before the class itself started. When the teacher called for the homework, he asked if he could turn it in at the end of class, like he always did, because he was only half done—his afternoon classes the day before hadn't awarded him any free time.

"Can't you turn in your work on time like the rest of us, Cassandra?"

"Timothy, that's enough," the teacher called from her desk. "But he's right. I can't keep giving you special treatment. I let you do this all through first semester. The year's almost over."

"Oh," he said quietly. He passed up his half-finished assignment. The teacher looked down at it in sympathy but said nothing more on the subject.

When the bell rang, one of his classmates tripped him right outside the door. He winced as he caught himself on his injuries. The sad part was, he didn't even know what constituted a bad day anymore.

* * *

After P.E., where they'd played dodgeball and Al and Luke had banded together to pelt one kid named Chuck repeatedly even when he was on the bleachers and out of the game, Dean stopped by his locker and picked up his Geometry textbook. He'd failed the class the year before, not because he didn't know the material—he got mostly B's on the tests—but because he didn't have time for the homework.

He spun around, straight into another kid, and knocked everything out of both of their hands. Without even thinking, he stooped down to pick up his textbook and the other kid's from the floor. His Geometry book was relatively new and untouched. The other kid's Physics book was beaten to all hell and barely keeping together.

"Here," Dean said, holding it out, finally looking at the kid. He was a boy Dean saw around. His name was Cassie or Carter or something. Everyone called him a slut; Dean didn't believe them. He knew sluts, and one look at the kid told him all he needed to know. The fact he was cute as all hell didn't really hurt his case, either.

He was half a foot shorter than Dean with messy, dark hair and deep blue eyes set in a pale, soft face. His jaw was strong, and his lips were full. His ratty, oatmeal-coloured turtleneck draped off his frame. He fidgeted nervously with the loose threads of one of the sleeves as he stared at the book.

"Aren't you gonna take it?" Dean asked gently. The boy nodded imperceptibly and snatched the book away, pressing it to his chest.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

Dean shrugged with a friendly smile. "S'okay. My fault anyway. Should watch where I'm going." The kid stared at him with wide eyes. "You should probably get going. The bell's gonna ring soon."

"O-Okay," the boy stammered a gravelly voice. When Dean made to move, he felt a tug at the hem of his shirt. The boy looked down sheepishly. "Um, I just…wanted to thank you. You're in my English class and Ms. Harvelle always complains about you not paying attention… If you wanted, I could help you. Not that you need help," he added quietly, biting his lip. "I mean, just as a…as a thank you. For the book." He ducked his head lower.

Dean blinked. "You don't need to thank me, but," the bell went off, "I mean if you want to help me, I'd like that." He gave a toothy grin. He wouldn't object to spending more time with the kid.

"You would?" the boy asked incredulously, eyes finally meeting Dean's, his head cocked to the side like a puppy.

"Well, yeah. My grades suck in there."

Like a rubber band snapping, the boy smiled brightly. His eyes practically radiated happiness. Dean bit his lower lip unconsciously. "Okay. We can talk about it in English."

"Okay." Dean smiled in turn, the movement a slow glide across his face. He really should've been getting to class, but he had to know. "I know this might be a stupid question, but what's your name? I never really caught it."

"Oh." The boy rubbed the back of his neck and looked down the hall. "Castiel. Like the angel," he said. "But everyone calls me Cassandra. Or Cassie. Because my name's weird."

"Nah," Dean said with an appraising look. "Suits you."

Castiel's eyes snapped to Dean before they shot to the linoleum floor. He shuffled his feet, his cheeks burning bright, pale skin betraying him. His lips turned up at the corners. "Thanks."

Dean's smile widened. He had half a notion to slide a finger under Castiel's jaw and bring his face back up just to see his reaction to it. "I'll see you in English, Cas. Mr. Michaels is going to kill me if I'm any later." He was halfway down the hall before Castiel called a flustered 'bye!' after him.

* * *

Castiel smiled all throughout Physics. He didn't even care that his lab partner had told him if he got any closer he'd stab him with the tools they were using. He stood off to the side and let him do everything, trying to catch the data his partner was purposely hiding by turning his paper over, all while drawing in his notebook to kill the time. Castiel knew who the boy in the hall had been. Dean Winchester. He was part of Luke's group—Cas knew Luke well because he was one of the kids that had seen him in the locker room freshman year. Dean was always around them. He should have been frightened—was at first when Dean had snapped up his book, so afraid he'd destroy it or confiscate it or beat him with it. But he just handed it back. And apologized. _To him._

And he wanted his help in English and told him his name suited him. Castiel's heart fluttered. No one had ever said that to him before, never wanted his help or complimented him. He couldn't wait for English just to talk to Dean again. Anxious, he bit at his bottom lip. Was he really serious about everything, though? Did he not know Castiel's reputation? Did he want anything—kids asked for sexual favours all the time like he owed it to them? Oh God, what if Dean was serious and he ruined everything? He always ruined things. There wasn't a thing in his life he hadn't touched that didn't later fall apart. Would he say something stupid, or would he worsen Dean's grades, or would he destroy his reputation—or…?

His bottom lip ached. He tongued it to find a deep indent dividing it in half. Maybe everything would be fine. Maybe he'd paid his dues and the world was finally rewarding him for his patience. Maybe he'd finally have a friend. Maybe there was more waiting for him in the future. For the first time in his life, he actually looked forward to something.

* * *

English was ninth period. They were working on outlines for a four-page essay on _The Hobbit_ due at the end of the next week. When they were given a couple minutes at the end of class to talk, Dean moved to the back of the room where he quickly discovered Castiel sat and shooed the kid sitting in the desk next to him away before plopping down. Castiel looked completely surprised.

Dean chuckled. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Castiel shook his head. "I just, I didn't think you meant it."

"I always mean what I say," Dean answered with a raised eyebrow.

"Oh." Castiel stared at his fingers fiddling with the chewed pencil in his hands. "Um, I can't meet after school, but if you want to talk over lunch, I do homework then."

"Yeah, that's fine. I work after school anyway."

"That's good," Castiel said and then added, "Dean," very quietly.

"Hm?

"I was—I was just making sure I got your name right. Because I told you mine."

Dean leaned back in the seat with an amused smile. "Yup. Dean. Nice and simple, just the way I like it."

"Mine's not simple," he said before he could stop himself.

"Nah, but that's okay. Your parents probably had big plans for you." Castiel flinched and bundled his papers up to stuff in his bag. It was in the same shape as his sweater. "So, tomorrow good for you?"

"For what?" Castiel asked quietly.

"Tutoring."

"Oh." It was more mouthed than spoken. "Yes. That's fine."

Dean tilted his head to the side a bit. "You okay?" Castiel wasn't fidgeting anymore. He had drawn in on himself, legs tucked tightly together under his seat, hands flat on his knees, head down. When Dean spoke, he looked up with half-lidded eyes and pulled his lips into a tight smile. Dean had half a mind to reach across the aisle and stroke the tension out of his cheeks. He'd seen that look before. Sammy used to do it when he was younger and the subject of Dad came up.

He did reach over and squeeze Castiel's shoulder. The other boy looked at him in shock before settling into the touch with a murmured 'thank you.' Dean's hand may have lingered too long. Castiel's face may have gone red.

_God damn it, he's cute. I'm so screwed. _Dean's tongue darted out to wet his lips.

"Um," Cas said to break the tension. Feeling suddenly awkward, Dean drew his hand away. "We could meet at the oak tree by the track."

As the bell rang, Dean stood up and ruffled Cas' hair like he would've done to Sam before he caught himself and cursed internally. _Could I be more fucking awkward?_ "Uh, yeah, see you there. Tomorrow," he finished lamely and shuffled out of the classroom.

* * *

Castiel walked all the way home with a smile on his face. Occasionally, he reached up to run a few tentative fingers through the hair Dean had touched. _Dean had touched him_. No one had ever touched him, not like that. No one had ever been that nice to him, either. For only a moment, he let himself wonder what it would be like if Dean ran a hand down his cheek, let it settle on his jaw. He blushed. Maybe kissed him.

He'd seen others in school do it and saw it in some of the movies they watched in class on lazy days. He'd never been kissed before, but he'd always been curious. Letting someone that close. Trusting them. How gentle it seemed at times. It was the first time he thought it might be something that could happen to him, but he shook the thoughts away. Just a friend would be nice.

He took off his schoolbag and hid it in the overgrown front bushes of the one-story white house tucked onto the end of a street on the edge of town, surrounded by budding trees and another house or two. Castiel had never seen his neighbors. He doubted they ever saw him, either.

He practically skipped along the crooked sidewalk up to the front door, took the spare key out of the empty pot on the step, unlocked the door, and placed it back in its spot. Inside, he dealt with the building trash, dusted the living room, cleaned the microwave, and swapped out the laundry. His uncle had shoved him inside the machine once when he was a kid to prove a point and had let him out after he apologized for using too much detergent. Stripping out of his clothes, he added them to the pile on the side of the machines. He was only allowed to wash his things when he had enough for a load. He'd put a pair of his socks in with his uncle's things once and they'd been used as a gag later when his uncle whipped him with a switch.

Naked, he started the load and went to tend to the dishes. When his uncle came in, he told him to _'stop fucking humming' _and promptly headed off to his room for a shower. Castiel continued to hum with a small, private smile on his face.

Someone liked him.

It was the best day of his life.

* * *

Dean was too busying slamming his face into the Impala's steering wheel to notice Sam climbing in the car.

"What's up with you?" he asked as he threw his bag in the floor.

"Did somethin' really stupid." He pressed his sore forehead to the wheel and started up the car.

"Don't you do that every day?" Sam quipped.

"Bitch," Dean said as he pulled out of the parking lot. He heard Sam mumbled '_jerk' _in response. "How was school?"

"Fine," Sam said. "Boring. Fine. What stupid thing did you do?"

Dean debated keeping it a secret for all of three seconds. If he was going to repair his relationship with his brother, he needed to trust him and let him in on his life. It was the only way he was going to get it in return. "You know the weird kid around the school? The one they say sleeps around?"

"Castiel." Sam glanced at him and asked without pause, "Did you sleep with him?" Dean had already told Sam he was slightly bisexual. His brother hadn't cared a bit.

"No!" Dean practically slammed on the breaks when they hit a stop sign. "No, God no. But um…I tell you something and it stays between us, okay?"

"Yeah."

"Promise," Dean said, glaring out of the corner of his eye.

"Yeah, yeah, I promise. I won't tell." Sam flopped back in the seat.

Dean swallowed. "I might…kinda…like him."

"_What?_"

Dean babbled on. "I ran into him in the halls today, literally, and I dunno, he was so quiet and shy and he kept fucking blushing even though it was obvious he was scared to death of me. And he offered to help me with my homework. _For not beating the shit out of him. _When _I _ran into _him. _What kinda kid does that? And he didn't even think I was serious when I said okay. I dunno, Sam, I just…I don't believe the rumours about him."

"Of course they're lies," Sam said. "Castiel's in my P.E. They don't let him change with us because kids complain about him being in the locker rooms and watching them. But he always gets picked on, no matter what we play. I've seen him leave with a bloody nose at least twice. I tried to help him up once, but I think he thought I was going to hit him or something. He's nothing like Anna or Ruby or Meg."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Kids bully him?" Of course he knew his group of friends picked on him occasionally. A trip or shove or name-calling.

"Dean, the whole school bullies him. He's like the scapegoat for everything."

"Scape-what?"

"Scapegoat." Sam rolled his eyes. "They blame everything on him. I felt bad for him, but he doesn't let anyone help him. He actually let you?"

"Yeah," Dean said quietly.

"And you like him? Like, like him like him?"

"Dude, what are we, third-graders?" Dean scrunched his nose. "I think he's cute, okay? That's it. Just the whole blue-eyed and shy routine."

"So that's what you fall for, huh?" Sam laughed. "What stupid thing did you do anyway? Just talk to him?"

"I, uh…ruffled his hair."

Sam burst into laughter. "Oh my god, you did what?"

"I ruffled his hair, okay! I wasn't thinking! It just happened! Now shut up about it." He flipped on some music with a violent motion, glad Bobby had obviously left something in after working on the car. The music blasted as they shot down the road.

Sam made a face. "Your taste in music still blows."

"Kiss my ass, Lady Gaga."

Sam mumbled something that suspiciously sounded like _Castiel_.

* * *

The school was quiet the next day. Dean's friends were strangely absent from classes, so when lunch rolled around, he threw his bag over his shoulder and headed outside without worry for the track. Even from a distance, it was obvious Castiel was sitting there, cross-legged, books in his lap. He didn't notice Dean until he dropped his bag next to him.

Castiel nearly jumped out of his skin.

Dean chuckled. "You're like a finicky little cat, y'know?"

"Dean?" He tilted his head.

"I was alone for lunch, figured I'd come see what you were up to. Make sure I could find the spot. We did have a date, didn't we?"

"A date?" Castiel's eyes grew wide.

"For tutoring." Dean coloured. _Smooth, Winchester. Smooth._ He sat down next to Cas. "I thought we could review our outlines for the essay."

"Oh," Cas said. He furiously scribbled what looked like Greek onto a piece of paper and shoved the book away. "I still have to finish Political Science for eighth hour before I start English."

"You haven't even started?" Dean asked.

"Only what I got done in class yesterday." His blue eyes scanned over a piece of text in his government book, but it all looked like gibberish. His heart was pounding hard enough he was sure Dean could hear it. No one had ever joined him for lunch before.

"You slacker," Dean teased. "And you're supposed to be helping me. Did you not take it home or what?"

Castiel's eyes stopped roving the paragraph on terrorism. "My…uncle doesn't allow me to do schoolwork at home. He says it's useless, so I do it over lunch and before school."

"Oh," Dean said, because what the hell was he supposed to say to that. "You always do it over lunch?"

"Yes."

"Don't you eat?"

Castiel finally looked up from the text. "I can't afford it." He looked back down at the book and mumbled phrases under his breath. Dean followed his eyes down to the text and then back up to his nose, across his cheekbone, his ear, down his neck to his faded green turtleneck sweater, along the bowed ridge of his spine barely pressed to the trunk of the tree behind them. The next thing he knew he had the sandwich Bobby had packed him in hand and was using it to nudge Castiel's arm.

"Do you want it?" he asked.

"No, thank you," Castiel said politely, sparing it a small glance.

"Aren't you hungry?"

"Yes," he said simply.

Dean shoved the sandwich forward again. "Then here. Take it." Castiel shook his head and focused on his textbook. "I had a big breakfast today. I'm not even hungry. It'll just go to waste." He poked him in the shoulder with it again. Castiel resolutely shook his head. "Why not?"

"I'm not supposed to take things that aren't mine."

"Why's that?"

Hunching over his book, Castiel murmured, "Because it'll ruin things."

Dean unwrapped the sandwich. "Says who?" He ripped it in half and set one triangle right in the middle of what Castiel was reading. "'Cuz I say, if you don't eat the damn thing, I'll be offended. Bobby makes a damn good sandwich. You're insulting it. Look at it. Turkey and cheese and mayo, even has shredded lettuce." He held out his triangle and poked Castiel's mouth with it. "Open."

Hesitantly, Cas obeyed. Dean shoved enough of the sandwich in his mouth to warrant a substantial bite. "Now, is that so bad?" Dean grinned as Castiel tried not to laugh around the sandwich, finally surrendering and biting down.

"You're stubborn," he said, mouth full.

Dean took a bite of the sandwich in his hand without thinking. "Yuhp." Castiel looked at it and turned red, swallowing hard. Dean cleared his throat and said around his bite, "You eat your half and finish your work." Castiel nodded and did as he was told.

Watching Castiel read, Dean pulled out the cheap MP3 Bobby had saved up for one Christmas and bought him and Sam both. His was black. Sam's was grey. He put in an earbud and pressed play. Metallica resumed where it had left off.

Castiel continued to take bites of his half of the sandwich as he read through the assigned chapter until the food was gone and he hit the end of the text. "We don't have much time," he said. "I'm sorry. We can look over English now."

Dean nodded. He paused his music and pulled out his earbud.

Before he could put it back in his bag, Castiel asked, "What's that?" He pointed at the MP3 player.

Dean raised an eyebrow. What did he mean _what's that_? Had this kid never seen an MP3 player before? "It plays music?"

"You listen to music?" he asked, head tilted, eyeing the small device as Dean put it away.

"You don't?" Who the hell didn't listen to music?

"I'm not allowed. No music. No TV. No movies. No books. Not in the house," Castiel said, and shut his government book, putting it back in his satchel.

Dean's face contorted. "Dear God, what kind of hellhole do you live in?" Instantly, Castiel looked down and bit his lip. "No music? No TV?"

"My uncle says it rots your brain," Castiel replied simply, staring at his bag and tucking his knees up to his chest, arms wrapped around them.

"Well, your uncle is a douchebag." When Castiel grew silent for several long minutes, Dean tried to salvage the conversation. He took the last bit of his sandwich and poked Cas in the mouth with it until he obediently opened up for it. "I just mean, it sounds like you have a life without having a life." He winced. "God, that came out wrong."

"No," Castiel said quietly after he swallowed the bite. "You're right." His whole body moved with his sigh.

"What if…" Dean started, "I played music while we worked every day? I could even borrow some of Sammy's songs. Introduce you to a wider range. Teach you everything from that Beethoven dude to The Beatles."

Castiel's blue eyes met his, wide, shining, curious. "You would…do that? For me?"

"Yeah," he said thickly. "Hold on, you've got something—wait, here." Dean reached over and brushed away a crumb sticking to the corner of Castiel's mouth with his thumb. The skin there was smooth, untouched, warm. Castiel met his eyes as his hand lingered a second too long, then two, five, ten, twenty. Colour pooled across Cas' cheekbones, growing deeper as Dean swiped his thumb across that full lower lip, outlining it with the pad of his finger and nail, gaze never wavering. Castiel's lips parted enough for stuttering, warm breath to ghost over Dean's finger. "Got it," he mumbled, unable to look away, eyes darting down to Cas' lips finally.

"Thank you," Cas said quietly. His eyes fell closed as Dean's fingers traced up his cheek, behind his ear, and down his neck. Suddenly, Cas jolted and flinched back a few inches. "Sorry. I just—."

"No, no," Dean said with a cough. "I get it."

"I—I think the bell rang."

"Yeah," Dean stammered, and scrambled to his feet. He offered Cas a hand, which he took, and lifted him from the ground. He dusted off his pants and grabbed his bag. "I'll um, I'll see you in English, alright?"

"M—Mm," Castiel hummed, fidgeting with his sleeves. "English."

"English." Dean winced. "Right. I'll—." He pointed toward the building and walked off.

* * *

Ninth hour came and went. Ms. Harvelle gave them the last two minutes in class to talk. Dean failed to notice two of his friends had magically reappeared that hour and instead headed back for Castiel, who was staring at his notebook as if it could talk. He sat across from him again as the kid in that desk, Adam or something, moved out of his way.

"Whatcha doin' there?" Dean asked, peering at the notebook curiously.

"Writing. Or thinking. Mostly." He picked up his pencil and erased the last line vigorously.

"For a class?" Castiel shook his head and rewrote what he had erased.

"It's a series of short stories I write when I have time. And paper." He erased part of the line again, tonguing his lip as he did so.

"So you're a writer, huh? You're totally the type." He glanced at the page once the pencil lifted, catching the words _gripped you tight and raised you from perdition. _"What's it about?"

"An angel named Castiel." He paused. "It sounds silly out loud, using my own name. But he's an angel, one who's stopped believing in his cause. I didn't know where to go with the story for a long time, but now…I think I know what it needs."

"And what's that?"

Castiel met his eyes. Their gaze held for nearly a minute. Dean could almost make out all the different shades of blue in Castiel's steady irises. He finally said, "He needs someone to rebel for."

The bell rang. Dean hardly noticed. "Did he find that person?" he asked quietly.

A slow, soft smile stretched across Castiel's face. "He did."

"Good." He grinned back and stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" Castiel nodded, and this time, Dean intentionally ruffled his hair. He smiled back from the door at Cas, who was watching him, hair in fourteen different directions, cheeks red, eyes warm.

Once at his locker, Dean shoved his books inside and slammed the metal door. He turned around to face each and every one of his hitherto missing friends. "Somethin' up?"

"Oh, don't play dumb," Luke said. "I saw you with Cassandra in English. Looked a little cozy to me."

Dean rolled his eyes. "He's gonna help me with homework. Harvelle hates me."

"That all he's gonna help you with?" Al asked. "Looked like all you had to do was say the word and he would've let you take him right there on that desk."

Dean winced. "Dude, I'm not like that."

"Yeah, but that little faggot is, so let's say we have some fun with him," Al said, smiling brightly, and Dean's stomach dropped.

"I really don't think—," he started, but Luke interrupted him.

"You go ask him out. Right now. On a date. You do and I'll give you forty bucks."

"Guys, I don't—."

Luke grinned. "We'll _all _give you forty bucks. Who knows, he might say yes and you get a little ass out of it." Al elbowed Christopher before he could protest about the money. "I just want to see how desperate he is. See him say yes."

Dean stopped. He needed that money. A junior named Jess had asked Sam to prom and Bobby and Dean were still figuring out how the hell they were going to pay for a tux and flowers and all the other shit that came with it. And if Sam ended up not getting to go because of them, he was going to completely disown them because he had a huge ass crush on Jess and this was what he deemed his only shot with her. His relationship with his brother was already falling apart.

But he couldn't do it.

He gave a violent sigh, hoping to high hell he wouldn't regret this. "No," he said gruffly, and pushed past Luke.

Only to be faced with all six feet and four inches of Ariel, who stared wordlessly down at him until he turned back around to the others. Luke clucked his tongue.

"Dean, Dean, Dean. You see, I really don't _like _the word no, and I really don't like being defied. We took you in when the rest of the school ignored you. I think you owe us for that, so when I tell you to do something, you do it. When I ask you to do something, you do it. When you don't want to do something, _you do it_." He smiled. "Or did you forget the protection we had extended to your little brother? We could revoke that. Better yet," his blue eyes gleamed, "we could wait until little Sammy wandered _a little too far_ away from the others."

Dean blanched.

"So go over there and ask Cassandra out."

Dean knew there was nothing he could do. Luke and his group _would _corner Sammy, and if they didn't beat the piss out of him, they'd recruit him. Christopher's little slut Ruby had tried getting to him at the beginning of the year, tried to entice him into partying and doing drugs. Sam had turned her down repeatedly, but even Dean could see his brother's rejections wearing thin. So the next time Ruby came, Dean had used the leverage he'd already had as a friend within Luke's group to convince Luke to have Chris stop his little minion. He'd even bargained for Sammy's complete protection.

And he'd sold his soul for it.

The group owned him, and he did anything they said, even if that meant keeping Chris' drugs in his locker when the time called for it or beating the snot out of some kids behind the school. He wanted to draw the line at Cas, but when Sam came in to question, there was nothing Dean could do. There was nothing he wouldn't do for his brother.

_I'm sorry, Cas. Please reject me. Or please say yes and nothing go wrong._

Gritting his teeth, Dean nodded, and Ariel happily slid to the side when he turned. He sauntered down the hall toward Cas' locker with stiff shoulders. Castiel was just finishing putting up his books, black notebook held to his chest, as Dean approached. He shut the metal door.

"Oh," he said, meeting Dean's eyes. "Did you…need something else?"

"Yeah," Dean said, and wrung his hands together. "I just wanted to say that I don't believe what everyone says about you, you know? And if you ever need help or anything, I've got your back." He took a deep breath. "Just so you know."

Castiel stared at him. "Do you…mean that?"

Dean nodded, and Castiel watched him incredulously. "I promise," he found himself saying. "Just call my name and I'm there. Anything you need. So just forget those dicks."

Cas' eyes searched his for a long time and finally softened. He looked sad. "Thank you, Dean," he whispered. His deep voice sent shivers down Dean's spine.

"And um," Dean fidgeted. "Look, I was wondering if maybe some time, I don't know, you wanted to go out for lunch or something? I have a car. We could—it could be like a date."

"A date?" Castiel echoed, eyes wide until he furrowed his brows and tilted his head to the side. "You…like me?" he asked slowly, quietly. Dean reached forward and brushed the back of his hand along Castiel's where it clutched the notebook. Castiel flinched before he sucked his full lower lip into his mouth, worrying it between his teeth as his blue eyes bored into Dean's.

Dean didn't have to lie, and that made him feel like shit. "Yeah." He cleared his constricting throat. "I do. A lot."

Castiel stared at the linoleum, chewing his lip. His breath was stuttering and quick. His fingers fiddled with the metal spine of his notebook. "I don't…"

"Hey," Dean said, and waited until Cas looked back up at him. "Whatever you choose, it's okay. If you just want to be friends, that's alright."

"Really?" Cas asked.

Luke's high-pitched laughter overtook the silence of the emptied hallway. He moved into view, along with the others. "Oh man, you almost had me, Dean." Dean's heart stopped in his chest. "Acting so sweet, leading him on, giving him a choice."

Anna looped an arm around Dean's neck, pressing her breasts against him, and slapped a wad of cash to the center of his chest. "Do everything he says," she whispered in his ear, giving it a small lick. "Or you'll regret it." She licked his ear again and trotted off with Ariel and Naomi on her heels.

Castiel tilted his head to the side and looked at each of them. Al took that moment to violently shove him back into the lockers.

"You didn't really think he was serious, did you, faggot?" Al patted Castiel's cheek. "You that much of a slut for it?"

"I don't understand," Castiel whispered.

Luke chuckled and made eye contact with Dean. "Hold him."

"What?" Dean asked.

"_Hold him_," Luke reiterated, pulling out his phone. Dean took a deep breath and moved behind Cas, gripping his upper arms and making him face Luke. "That's right. Look at the camera."

"Dean," Cas tried to turn, "what's going on?"

Frowning heavily, Dean took another breath that burned his lungs and held Castiel more firmly. "Please shut up, Cas. Don't make it worse than it is."

"You see," Luke said, "we paid Dean to sleep with you and come back with picture proof, but Dean was being a little slow about it, so we're just going to hop right in with more direct methods."

"Dean?" Cas whispered, frightened.

Al grinned and cut in. "Let me make it clear for you: Dean doesn't like you. No one likes you. The only thing you're good for is bending over and sucking cock, and it's about time everyone got to see you for who you are."

"Yup," Luke chimed in before Dean could protest. "So Cassie, why don't you tell the whole world how much of a slut you are and lay a nice big kiss on Dean there?"

"What?" He shivered in Dean's arms.

"Do it," Al growled lowly, "or I'll snap your arm like I did back sophomore year."

All of the sudden, Castiel went rigid in Dean's arms and stopped breathing. Dean gritted his teeth and let go, ready to punch Al in the face when Cas turned around with an unseeing gaze, completely emotionless. He faintly heard the telltale beep of Luke's phone.

"I'm a whore," Cas said, looking Dean in the eyes.

"Cas—."

"I'll sleep with anyone. I like it. I'd sleep with you."

Before Dean had time to react, Castiel was pressing his slack lips to Dean's. Something about it was wrong and disgusting. They were cold and chapped, unresponsive.

The beep on Luke's phone sounded again before he said, "Good boy. I knew you had it in you." Castiel took a step away from Dean, eyes on the floor.

Angry, Dean went to snatch the phone, but Luke backed away with a grin. "Ah, ah! Remember our deal." He practically skipped down the hall, followed by Al after the latter slammed Cas' head back into the lockers. Dean yelled after them, only stopping when Castiel finally spoke up, quietly, from behind him.

"You…were nice to me…just to embarrass me and make money. You lied to me. You don't even…you don't even like me. You think I'm a—."

Dean turned around. "Cas—." But he stopped.

Cas was leaning against the lockers, face wrecked. Heavy tears dripped down his chin and flooded his blue eyes. His mouth quivered.

"Cas, I swear," Dean pleaded.

The notebook slipped from Castiel's fingers and hit the floor as a single, loud, racking sob ripped through his body. Dean reached out, but Cas had already darted in the opposite direction and he didn't have the heart to follow him. He felt like a piece of shit. Fisting the dollar bills in his hand, he picked up Cas' fallen notebook and headed out to the car where he knew Sam would be waiting.

* * *

They put the video online. It was fourteen seconds long, all composed of Castiel outing himself as a homosexual, as promiscuous, and proving it. The link appeared on Facebook without preamble, and it spread like wildfire.

Sam saw the video too. He yelled at Dean for a solid five minutes about being a _liar _and a _hypocrite_, calling him a backstabbing asshole for not defending Cas if he liked him so much, before telling him to go to Hell and locking himself in his room. Bobby had watched it after that and demanded an explanation. Dean gave one. He told him _everything._

"Boy, you're a special brand of stupid," Bobby said once he was finished. It was dark outside. Dean hadn't had a shift today, and he was glad for it.

"I know." Dean hung his head. "I know." Bobby's eyes softened at that, and he sat a glass on the table and filled it with whiskey.

"You don't tell your brother about this." Dean nodded and brought the glass to his lips. "Now why do I have the feeling you're hidin' somethin'?"

Dean swallowed his mouthful with downcast eyes before reaching into his schoolbag on the floor and slapping a black notebook onto the kitchen table. He flipped to the last page that had been written on. "I wanted to see if he left any homework in here that needed done by tomorrow, but I…I found this instead."

Bobby read it. It was one line written in pencil.

_Someone was nice to me today._

* * *

_His uncle undid the rope around his neck before he went upstairs to get ready for work. When he came back down in scrubs and saw he hadn't moved, his uncle pulled out the hose from the corner and gave him a bath like he always did every other day, tossing him a bar of soap and forcing him to scrub himself as his uncle blasted the ice cold water at him._

_"Go upstairs and get dressed," his uncle said. He had a basket of clothes in the hallway closet upstairs, some things his uncle had found, some things from cheap resale shops or garage sales, some things his uncle had stolen off friends, some things he himself had taken from lost-and-founds._

_Today, though, he didn't want to move. He came back to the house the day before in tears, rushing through the dishes and housework before stripping off his clothes, placing them next to the washing machine as he changed the load and folded what had come out of the dryer. He disappeared into the basement after that. His uncle came home drunk that night. He knew because his uncle never navigated the basement stairs when he was and instead passed out in front of the TV, which blared unintelligibly all night long._

_"I don't want to," he said._

_"What was that?"_

_He mumbled, "I don't want to go to school today."_

_His uncle smiled. "Is that right?" Without another word, he went into the backroom of the basement. He knew what was in there, mostly because he saw what came out, but also because he'd snuck in there once when he'd been beaten too roughly to attend school and his uncle had been gone at work. It was a small room with a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Shelves lined the entire space. Some had things like pliers and ice picks. Others had hunting knifes and rope. A few had whips. One had jars of teeth and fingernails, pubic hair and even a toe. The room was hidden behind a large, moveable shelf, like it had been used to hide people or alcohol in the past. Now it hid parts of him._

_His uncle came back with something he'd shown him before but never used. A cilice, 'made special' he'd said. Smaller. Sharper. Designed to draw blood and cause as much pain as possible._

_"Then I guess you can sit here all day with this until I have time to punish you later."_

_He backed against the wall as his uncle moved forward and wrenched his leg away from his body by his ankle. He slid the chain around his upper thigh, tightened it into place, and violently jerked it in the opposite direction._

_He screamed and clawed at the ground, trying to get away from the pain._

_"Shut up!" his uncle yelled before something stiff with dirt he could taste was shoved into his mouth and fastened in place by a belt lying not too far away. He whimpered and slowed his breathing as the snot from crying threatened to cut off all his air. He couldn't afford that._

_His uncle stomped up the stairs and slammed the door, and he wondered if he'd ever finish the deed and just kill him already._

* * *

Dean showed up to school with Sam early the next day—early as in the halls were completely empty and some teachers hadn't even shown up yet. He waited by Cas' locker with the notebook until people filed in, the bell rang, and he had to go to P.E. His friends were waiting for him when he left the locker room. He didn't say a word to them.

"Aw, Dean," Al drawled. "What's the matter, sweetheart? Miss your little boy toy?"

Dean didn't even dignify the jab with a response. They went to the track that day to run laps. Dean ran ahead of the others on purpose, ahead of the whole class, and every time he passed the lone tree off to the side of the course, his heart panged with guilt.

He stopped by Cas' locker in between periods, but he never showed. He ignored every one of his classmates that came up and called him a faggot or tried to high-five him for putting Castiel in his place until they stopped coming all together. Dean only started to worry when the second bell rang for English and Cas was the only one missing. He stared up at Ms. Harvelle as she droned on about Mirkwood and its similarities to the Forbidden Forest, drawing crude trees on the board in blue chalk.

"And to make sure your essays are grammatically correct," _because they never are _was implied, "I'm assigning this worksheet. It's only twenty questions. You read the sentence and label its parts. All the parts." The class groaned as the bell rang.

"This is fucking stupid," one kid said as he left.

Dean approached the front of the room. It took the teacher a few moments to realize he was there. When she did, she looked surprised. "Winchester," she said, "is there a problem?"

"No, ma'am," he mumbled respectfully. "I was just wondering if I could have an extra worksheet to take Cas since he's absent."

She nodded. "I noticed you talking to him. Boy doesn't have near enough friends." She sighed. "I usually give homework when students come back, but I can make an exception. We both know what was posted online, Dean. I know how you are. I know the people you hang around with. And I know you're better than that."

_No, I'm really not. _Dean swallowed and nodded.

"If I can be frank here, Dean, I want you to get your head out of your ass and go apologize to that boy. I know it wasn't your idea. I saw you together. So I give you this worksheet and you promise me you'll do everything in your power to make this right. You hear me?"

"I understand, ma'am." He took the offered worksheet and left the class.

* * *

_He gasped for breath as his head was wrenched back. Water sluiced down his face while he coughed and sputtered. And then he was forced into the bath again. The next time his uncle pulled him up, he smacked his head off the side of a soap dish._

_"Look what you made me do!" he yelled. "I dirtied your face where everyone can see and it's all your fault. You little fucking whore! Did you think I wouldn't see that video?"_

_"No—!" he cried as he was picked up and shoved under again. He thrashed and struggled, slapping water all over the place until he could breathe again and choke out several violent sobs. "He was nice! I didn't know!"_

_"Listen to me, you little fuck. He was nice to you for fucking sport and you bought it because you're a little slut. You admitted it to the entire goddamn world," he growled. "Would you have sucked him off, let him fuck you?"_

_"No," he cried._

_"Wrong!" His head went under again, and he came up pleading._

_"Please, please don't, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, I'm sorry!"_

_"Don't apologize to me. Tell me the fucking truth. Would you have let him fuck you?"_

_"No!" he sobbed. "No, no, no!"_

_"Stop _lying!_" His uncle threw his body to the tiled floor. "Would you have let him fuck you?"_

_"No!"_

_"_Would you?_"_

_He cried against the floor, rolling his bleeding forehead against it while he chanted his answer over and over and over like a prayer. He was jerked up by the back of his neck and something hard was forced down his throat. He knew what it was. His uncle placed both hands on the back of his head and thrust deep into his mouth._

_"You would have let him fuck you," he told him. "Because you're a little whore. You like this. You like it when I do this. You said so."_

_He gagged and scratched at his uncle's jeans with his fingernails._

_"Your mother was the same fucking way. Let my brother screw her and leave her and then she fucking left me because I wasn't good enough! I didn't treat her like shit! If I'm nice to you, you'll leave me too, you little bastard, just like your mom. Just fucking like her." He pressed as deep as possible and held himself there with a satisfied groan. "You're not gonna fucking leave me. I'm all you've got. If you leave, I'll find you. I'll fucking find you," he said with a breathy moan._

_His uncle pulled him away long enough to shove his head into the bath again. When he came up, his uncle finished himself inside his mouth and left him on the bathroom floor. Alone, he threw up semen and stomach acid, dragged himself through it on hands and elbows to the door, leaned up, and locked it._

_He was tired. He was done._

* * *

Dean curled up with the worksheet and Chem I post-lab questions in the study after he'd gotten back from work around ten. Bobby wandered in not long after.

"You okay, boy?"

Dean shook his head. "Cas wasn't at school today." He marked all the verbs on the worksheet first. "I wanted to apologize and give him his notebook back. I ended up grabbing some of his homework. I don't even know where he lives."

The loud knock on the front door interrupted them. Bobby hurried off in the direction of it, and when the door creaked open, the voice of Sheriff Jody Mills filled the house. "I was in the neighborhood," she was saying. "Thought I'd drop by and see my favourite drunk."

"Ha ha, very funny."

Jody entered the study. "I'm actually here to talk to Dean about a video online that someone sent the police a link to. While we can't press charges or anything," she looked at Dean with a mother's harsh glare, "I expect better from you. Ganging up on a poor kid, Dean? Really?"

"I know," Dean mumbled. "I'm an ass."

"Language," Jody reprimanded. "Now, you don't know the half of that boy's life, but let me tell you this much because most in this town know by now. That uncle of his is a snake if I've ever seen one and his parents skipped out on him the second he was born, and you go and pull this bullshit."

"Jesus, Jody, I know, okay?" Dean barked, trying to ignore the growing pit in his stomach, threatening to make him expel his meager lunch. "I mean, I didn't know about that shit, but Christ, I actually like him. Fuck me, yeah, he's a guy and I like him, okay? And I feel like shit because they threatened to beat the shit out of Sam if I didn't help, and I don't even know if it was freaking worth it because I feel like a dick and Cas probably hates me and everyone knows! I don't even know if I would take it all back because Sam's okay, but it doesn't matter because I can't." He swallowed thickly. Those tear-filled blue eyes came to mind. "I can't. I know you all think I'm a heartless asshole, but I'm not and I'm sorry."

Before anyone could answer, Jody's radio crackled to life on her waist. _"We've got a 10-56A at 134 Ash Street. Immediate medical attention required." _In a flurry, Jody snatched up the thing and rattled off the appropriate responses. Dean only caught _en route_. "I'm sorry," she told them. "I have to go. Now."

"What is it?" Dean sat up in a hurry.

_"Any unit to cover 23 at 134 Ash Street."_

"Dean, I'm sorry." She rushed out of the study without another word. Dean looked up to Bobby who had gone white in the face.

"What is it?" he asked again.

Bobby took a deep breath. "I only know what codes I've picked up, but…that one I recognize." Dean raised an eyebrow. "Attempted suicide, Dean."

The whole world suddenly tilted on its axis, the room spinning around him as his papers hit the floor. _No. It couldn't be._

* * *

_"You open this fucking door right now!" The knob jiggled again as he fought to get himself on two feet and into the mirror cabinet. Inside was his uncle's shaving kit, a straight razor he was intimately familiar with. He snatched it off the shelf, knocking down dozens of pill bottles, and stumbled over to the bathtub, throwing his body limply into the freezing water._

_"Cassie! Open this door!"_

_He flipped open the razor and stared down at it long enough to know it was what he wanted. He set the blade against his wrist, closed his eyes, and pressed on it, dragging it halfway down his forearm with a quick, violent motion. He shivered as he opened his eyes and transferred the blade to his left hand, trying hard not to stare at the fountain of blood staining the water. In his hurry, he cut his right wrist deeper than he meant to, but he figured it all had the same outcome._

_Dropping the blade into the water, he leaned back against the tub and stared at the moldy ceiling. The world slowly became a haze, and the loud crack of a door flying open failed to register._

_"No! You've ruined everything!"_

* * *

Sheriff Jody Mills knocked on the front door again. "Mr. Novak, we got your call, please open up!" The paramedics and two other officers were waiting in the front yard. She knocked again. "Mr. Novak!"

"No!" came the yell. "I made a mistake—I lied! He's okay! Go away!"

"Mr. Novak!" She raised her voice. "We need you to open up so we can at least ascertain that ourselves."

"No! He's okay! I promise!"

She knocked harder. "Mr. Novak, you have ten seconds to open this door before we break it down." The sheriff nodded at the two behind her who silently agreed it was an exigent circumstance.

The second she turned her head back to the door, a shot rang out in the silence.

Immediately, she pulled out her handgun and smashed the door open with two well-aimed kicks. "Mr. Novak," she called, voice dying at the sight in front of her.

Castiel's uncle was lying in a pool of blood a few feet into the entryway.

Guns in hand, the sheriff and another officer briefly secured the house, barging into the living room, kitchen, office, and bedroom. Nothing seemed out of place, not until Jody heard a weak whimper coming from the door next to the large bed covered in pristine red sheets. It was hanging awkwardly on its hinges, clear signs of it being broken down by the splintering of the wood. She nudged it the rest of the way open with her gun.

The bathroom was complete done in white. White tile. While porcelain. White curtains. And it was all stained red. Jody rushed over to the overflowing bathtub, the stained liquid puddled on the floor. "He's in here!" she yelled as loud as she could. Looking back at the semi-conscious body in the bath, she cringed. His lips were bleeding, chapped, bitten, and colourless. He had a deep cut to his brow and drying vomit stuck to his chin. He shivered violently, his mangled arms twisted into claws, barely visible under the surface of the water. A deep, embedded scar wrapped around his throat, and numerous other white nicks decorated the visible parts of his chest along with bruises ranging from yellow to purple.

"Castiel? Castiel, sweetie, I need you to look at me," she said, trying to catch his heavy-lidded, roaming gaze. The paramedics entered the room, spouting off medical jargon on sight. Castiel was lifted out of the water as Jody grabbed towels from next to the sink for them to wrap around his wrists while they elevated them and got him out to the ambulance. She noticed several things in those few seconds. Castiel was naked. Castiel's skin was pulled so tightly to his bones she could almost outline every single rib with her eyes. Castiel was hairless. Castiel had a metal chain fastened to his leg, surrounded by blood. Castiel was missing a toe.

"What the hell did he do to you?" she murmured to herself as the EMTs wheeled him out of the house. She took several deep breaths to fight off the nausea building in her stomach, only to look down and notice a small puddle of vomit.

The officer who had checked the house with her, Patterson, stepped into the bathroom with wide eyes. "Jesus fuck," he whispered.

Jody scrubbed a hand over her face before wondering if it was clean. It was. She tucked her gun back into its holster.

"Sheriff," Patterson said. "Now may not be the time, but I noticed something." She glanced up at him. "We looked in every room."

"And?"

Patterson paused. "Where was the kid's?"

* * *

"Dean," Bobby commanded. "You need to calm down, boy. Ain't nobody gettin' helped with you running around like a ditched prom date. Even if it is this Castiel kid, which we don't know," he pointed out, "you shittin' yourself ain't gonna do a damn thing. Trust me."

Dean knew he should have listened to Bobby. He'd been married, way back before Dean and Sam had moved in with him, but his wife had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. Just two days before that diagnosis, she had been fighting with her husband about the fact he never wanted kids and she did. Then the report came in, and she found out she didn't have time to have children—not even to live. She decided in a fit of depression to call it quits and overdosed on pills. Bobby had found her in their bed before it was too late. In the hospital, she cursed him for being a coward and a liar, said a million things she never would have before, and Bobby took every word to heart but stayed by her side until she died a few short weeks later. He'd told Dean all of this years ago, one night on the anniversary of her death when he got a little too drunk. Dean guessed that was why Bobby had taken him and his brother in in the first place, a sort of apology to his wife for one of the last arguments they'd had.

Dean finally stopped and balled his fists in front of his eyes. "What if this is my fault, Bobby? What if it is him and he did this because of what I did? What if he dies and it's all my fault? Oh God," he pressed the heels of his palms into his cheekbones, "this is my fault. This is all my damn fault. He's dead because of me. He's dead, Bobby. What kind of an asshole am I?"

Bobby stood up and grabbed Dean by the scruff of his neck, waiting until those red-rimmed, green eyes met his. "Boy, you listen to me right now. Ain't no one dead, and from what I can tell from that notebook 'a his, you're the only damn happy thing that's ever happened to him."

"And I took it away!" Dean yelled.

"Listen to me!" Bobby commanded. "If this boy did hurt himself, he has more reasons than some dumbass idjit," Bobby let go of Dean's neck and slapped upside the head, "who played a stupid ass prank on him. People don't call it quits for one reason. It's a culmination of things, you dumbass. So you're going to finish your homework, take a shower because you smell like a dead coon on hot pavement, and go to bed." He raised a hand before Dean could protest. "Any bad news, and I'll wake you up. Good news can wait for breakfast."

Dean nodded slowly and sniffed as the last of his tears dried on his face.

* * *

Patterson eased open the basement door with the sheriff behind him and made his way down the creaking steps with gun in one hand and flashlight in the other. The beam illuminated a path to a concrete floor, covered in dirt and stains. Old chairs and a bike missing a front tire sat off to the left. To the right was something neither of them expected.

A rope curled around a small patch of blood on the floor, the other end fixed to a hook that had been drilled into the wall. Cigarettes and matches littered the area, which was free of dirt and slightly damp. Mills spotted a hose nestled into the corner of the other side of the basement.

Patterson took a deep breath. "Tell me this isn't what it looks like…because it looks like a fucking torture chamber."

Tears pricked at Jody's eyes. "He kept him down here."

"What?"

"He kept him down here." She nodded to the fifty-gallon bucket in the corner and ran a hand over her face before she wistfully pointed at the dog dish flipped over on the other side of the room. She turned her back and faced the stairs. "We need to call a team down here."

That was when she noticed.

Behind the stairs, the room extended out with dank, grey walls. The area was completely bare, which made the shelves hanging open, visible to the right of the stairs, entirely obvious. Cautiously, she pulled out her flashlight and aimed it there.

Patterson inhaled behind her. "Fuck, that's another room."

She ignored him and approached it, one foot placed in front of the other, throat constricting around aborted swallows. Her heart hammered in her ears. When she was directly in front of the door, she placed a hand on the shelving unit's old wood and pulled.

It creaked and opened the rest of the way.

Jody took two steps in the room before she darted out and placed her hands on her knees. The flashlight rolled across the floor as her stomach heaved, but nothing came up. She clenched her eyes shut to hold back the tears.

"Holy fuck," Patterson said. It wasn't with amazement. It was with horror.

* * *

Castiel stared at the ceiling and tried to process everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. The doctors and officers had told him his uncle was dead. He had answered very few of their questions. His wrists had been stitched and bandaged, and an IV was hooked up to his arm because he was malnourished. The cilice had been removed, something the doctors had asked about. He told them he still didn't want to talk about it. They asked about his burn marks, the bruises, the scars on his neck and chest, his missing toe. He remained silent and stared at the light coming in through the window to his left.

Somehow, this didn't seem like victory.

Victory wasn't a hospital room. Victory wasn't having no family. Victory wasn't a gaping hole in his chest that seemed to swallow every word the doctors said and give nothing in return.

"Castiel, we'll have to evaluate you soon," the doctor at the end of his bed said gently.

Slowly, Castiel lifted his eyes from the window and let his gaze alight on the man's face.

"I just wanted it to stop. Why didn't you let it stop?" he whispered.

* * *

When his alarm went off in the morning, Dean didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He hurried through getting dressed, pissing, and brushing his teeth, smoothing a hand over his hair and ultimately forgetting deodorant, rushing back up the stairs to put it on when he remembered.

In the kitchen, Bobby was sitting down with a mug of coffee. Sam was suspiciously silent with a bowl of cereal and glass of juice. Dean entered slowly.

"'Bout time, boy," Bobby said. "Grab some coffee, make some toast, then sit." Dean did as he was told in a rush and finally slid into a chair at the table. "Now, I'm going to tell you what I found out myself, from Jody, and from the neighbors over on Ash." Dean nodded. "It was Cas."

Everything slowed down around him, even his heart inside his ribcage. Dean's throat closed around the piece of toast he'd swallowed, and his eyes threatened to spill tears. "Is he—." Dean coughed around the bite and cleared his throat. "Is he…okay?"

Bobby said nothing. "From what I hear, weird shit's been going on in that house for a while and nobody thought to tell nobody about it. Last night, the police got there. Linda from the house down the road was watching from her porch. They broke in after a gunshot."

Dean's breakfast was left abandoned until Bobby paused and pointed to it, gesturing for him to continue before he would.

"Boy's uncle killed himself, and no one does that unless they got something to hide. They found Cas in time and got him to the hospital, though. He's okay, stable. Police still have the house blocked off. Linda says they brought in a team, stayed long after the body and kept leaving with boxes of things. So I asked Jody what she could tell me when I went to the station a few hours ago, anything to settle you. She couldn't tell me a thing, but I've never seen that woman look so heartbroken in my life, not even after her husband and boy were killed by that drunk driver."

Dean was breathing hard by now. He pushed his breakfast away and pressed his head to the cold table as he fought to keep the few sips of coffee and half a piece of toast down. "Can we go see him?" he croaked.

"I asked. They've got him on a watch, but visitors are welcome. You and Sam go to school, I'll call in to work for you, and we'll all go the second you get back. And if I find out you went behind my back and ditched school, you'll regret it," Bobby said with a hard look that betrayed nothing.

"But—."

"He's stable, Dean. Nothing's going to happen in the next seven hours. Cas isn't going to give a rat's ass that you weren't there while he sat through questioning. He's only going to care that you showed up period, because for all that boy knows, he has no one now. He's not expecting a damn thing, so you're going to take a few hours to calm down, get your shit together, and then we'll go see him."

* * *

Dean carried Cas' notebook all day, and he didn't care if that made him look like a lovesick teen. It was the only thing keeping him together. With it against his chest, he could remember that in a few short hours, he would be returning it to Castiel, Castiel who was alive, Castiel who probably hated him but was breathing, Castiel who needed someone right now.

Dean was expecting the whole school to be alive with the news of Castiel and his uncle, but it wasn't. No one was talking about it, not even the teachers. It was like it didn't even happen. Dean wanted to scream. How could they all be going about their lives while one had been lost over the course of the night and another had come extremely close?

He didn't talk to anyone all day. When teachers asked him questions, he shrugged until they moved on. When his _friends _tried to joke with him, he told them he wasn't in the mood until they called him a pansy little girl and commenced with taunting the next kid in their lineup.

Regardless of what Bobby had said, Dean did ditch out of ninth period because he couldn't stand seeing that empty seat in the back of the room and walked to a florist a couple blocks away; Bobby had dropped him and Sam off in the Impala to deter Dean from hopping behind a set of wheels and disobeying. He even stayed until they walked in the school doors. Dean drew out his wallet and slipped forty dollars from its place amongst the rest of the bills Bobby had made him keep as a reminder. They made him sick.

He slapped the bills on the counter in front of an average woman. She was boney with highlighted blonde hair and a kind smile decorated with rose lipstick.

"What can I get for ya, hun?"

Dean nodded toward the money. "Whatever that will buy me."

The woman picked up the bills and counted them. She tucked them away in the register, asking, "For a girlfriend?"

"No." He buried his hands in his jean pockets, old leather coat feeling huge on his frame all of the sudden.

"Mom? Grandma maybe?" she continued on. "It'll help me figure out where to star—."

"My friend tried to kill himself and it might be my fault, and I just want him to smile. Okay?" he asked tensely. The woman paused behind the counter with a shocked expression, but she recovered quickly.

"Honey, I know exactly what you need."

* * *

Notebook and homework in his lap, Dean sat in the front of the Impala as Bobby drove, fiddling the small bouquet of hyacinth as he stared out the window. If Bobby noticed the flowers, he said nothing.

When they got to the hospital, they were led by a nurse to the appropriate wing where another nurse explained the situation with Castiel. While they weren't family, the nurse had been informed that the patient had none and that they were allowed to visit as long as Castiel didn't ask to have them removed, but because of his delicate situation and his inability to comply with the doctors thus far, they were only admitting one visitor into the room with him at a time.

That was how Dean found himself outside of the wide, hospital door, flowers and notebook in hand. Bobby had taken Sam down to the waiting room so he could do his homework while they waited, and Bobby had gone off to talk to the doctors.

Nervous as all hell, Dean pushed the door open and slid inside.

Castiel looked small curled up in the oversized white bed. He stared at the bleak sky through the window that let in the harsh white afternoon light, which barely illuminated the dull, washed out room. If he heard the door, he didn't acknowledge it.

Dean moved forward slowly, flowers squeezed tightly in his hand, until he was right next to the bed. And he froze. Cas' wrists were bandaged, along with his forehead—Dean gulped—but the light allowed him to see parts of Castiel's skin that had been hidden by sweaters before. He wasn't any stranger to injuries, and he had enough common sense on top of it to know these weren't recent. Or accidental.

Scar tissue littered Castiel's right arm from wrist up to the sleeve of his hospital gown, and a deep-set scar wrapped around the base of his throat.

He placed the flowers on the small side table next to the bed and cleared his throat, unsure where to start. He opened his mouth several times before deciding. "I'm sorry, Cas."

Castiel blinked slowly at the window but didn't move or speak.

"I know…I know that doesn't make anything better, but I am so, so sorry." He bit the inside of his mouth, his eyes stinging. "I know I can't say anything to take it back, but I wish I could. I was so worried…I…" He reached out and sat the black notebook in Castiel's lap. "I, um, I got this. I didn't read it, not really, and I picked up some of your homework. It's inside—."

"Why are you here?" Castiel whispered.

Dean stared at him, but Castiel wouldn't budge. "Because I care, Cas."

"You don't care," he said. "No one does." His eyes shut against the light.

Slowly, watching Castiel for a reaction, Dean sat on the edge of the bed and placed his hand on Cas'. It was cold and unmoving under his. "Look, Cas, I'm not…I'm not going to pretend I know the half of what's gone on in your life, but feeling so broken inside you don't know what to do? I know that. If it wasn't for Sammy and Bobby, I don't know where I'd be." He took a deep breath. "When I was four, my mom died in a house fire. I don't know why, but my dad blamed me. He drank. A lot. Sometimes, he never came home, and I was glad. He was so awful. I had to hide bruises from Sammy, protect him. It's always been my job: protecting my brother. In the fire, I carried him out. I always had to do what was best for him.

"And I don't know, that got drilled into my head. Even when my dad disappeared and I was six, I made sure to track down one of my dad's old friends so that Sammy had a warm bed and food to eat, and when people picked on him at school, I beat the shit out of them. That's why I was friends with Luke and them. They helped. And there was a girl earlier this year that tried to get my brother into some bad stuff, so I made a deal with them. They'd leave Sammy alone and watch out for him if I did what they said. And I've done a lot of shitty things, but the shittiest thing I've done is turn my back on a friend. I really liked you, Cas, and I was serious. They told me to do those things to you and I told them no. God, I didn't want to, Cas."

He buried his face in his hand.

"But they told me they'd hurt Sam if I didn't, and that's no fucking excuse for how I treated you, but I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what I did and what they did and what everyone did, because even though I had Sam and Bobby, you didn't have anyone on your side." He sniffed violently into his palm.

It almost eclipsed Cas' quiet words.

"It's not your fault."

Dean looked up when Cas spoke. His eyes were shut firmly. "At least look me in the eyes, Cas."

"Can't," Cas whispered. His jaw quivered, and several tears tumbled down his cheeks. "I can't. I just want…"

Throwing all caution to the wind, Dean leaned up, cupping Castiel's face and wiping away the wetness there with his thumbs. Even as Castiel's eyes shot open, he pressed forward and kissed him right between his eyebrows.

"W-What are you—?"

"It's just me and you, Cas," Dean said, sitting back around that he was still rubbing Cas' cheeks but could look him in the eyes. "Just me and you. No Luke. No Al. No cameras. No anything. Just us. And if you don't trust me, I understand, but I want you to know that I'll do anything to earn that trust back if I even had it to begin with. Anything."

Castiel stared at him in confusion, watery eyes darting between each of his, lips parted. "Why do you _care?_" His voice broke on the last word.

"I don't know," Dean said honestly. "But I care a whole hell of a lot, and so do Bobby and Sam. They're in the waiting room. And Bobby said Jody—she's the sheriff—he said she was almost in tears over you and I can't imagine her not caring. And I swear, Cas, you're not alone and I'm never going to let anything happen to you ever again."

Before the last words even left his mouth, Castiel dissolved into wretched sobbing, and Dean leaned forward, putting a hand behind Cas' head to gently guide him to his shoulder, which Castiel collapsed into with gasping wails. Dean stroked through his slightly greasy hair with his fingers, rocking both of them together as his shirt grew wet.

"It'll be okay," he promised when Cas quieted down.

Castiel swallowed roughly and peeked over to look at the small table, spying a bouquet of flowers there. "Did you?" he croaked.

"Don't laugh," Dean growled, knowing exactly what Castiel saw. "I got them because that's what people do. They go to the hospital. They get flowers."

Castiel leaned back, lifting his arm with a wince and wiping off his eyes before reaching over with a shaky hand to grab the bouquet and bring it to his lap. He stared at Dean, who cleared his throat and used two fingers to steal a hyacinth from the bunch and stick it behind Castiel's ear. Cas tilted his head like a puppy.

"They, uh, go nice with your eyes." Even though they were puffy and bloodshot, they were still a gorgeous shade of inquisitive blue.

Before Castiel could say anything, the door opened and a male nurse came in, looking between the two with a smile. "Just checking in," he said. "How are you doing, Castiel?"

"Better," Cas said. "I'd…I'd like to speak to the doctor now. If that's okay."

"Absolutely," the man said with a wide grin. "I'll go fetch Dr. Corsack. You stay put, but your visitor will have to leave."

"Oh," Cas said quietly, looking at his lap before his eyes came up to Dean's. "Will you…are you…?"

"I'll be here tomorrow," Dean answered with a smile. Castiel smiled back. "You talk to the doc, and I'll tell Bobby and Sam what's up. Get some rest, okay?"

"Of course, Dean," he said softly.

* * *

In the waiting room, Dean told Sam and Bobby what had happened and all that he knew, which really was nothing when it came down to it.

Bobby nodded. "He should be discharged by tomorrow."

Dean paused, though. It hadn't even crossed his mind. "But…his uncle's dead. Where the hell are they going to send him?"

"Probably back home, Dean," said Sam from the hard couch against the wall. "The house is fine."

"But—dude, it's probably a mess, and would you really want to live in the place you almost died and your uncle killed himself? Who's going to take care of him? How's he going to afford food and school and his doctor bills and—?"

Sam laughed. "Calm down, Dean. I'm kidding. Bobby's been on the phone with Jody the whole time and he talked to the doctors. We're not abandoning Cas."

Dean looked to Bobby for answers, which he supplied. "Kid's eighteen. He ain't got no family. Asked if we could take him in. Didn't figure you'd mind. Don't think he will, either."

A weight lifted off Dean's chest. "That's…that's great, Bobby, but," he paused, "how are we going to afford it? We're barely managing."

"Dean," Bobby said, and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You think I don't have money I've been sitting on? Granted I thought it was gonna be for retirement or for Sam's college funds—."

"But I said it was okay," Sam cut in. "I'll probably get a scholarship anyway, and I can work hard to make sure it's substantial. Cas is more important. I'm not going to let him starve on the streets just because I'm selfi—."

Dean had rushed across the room and pulled his brother into a deadly bear hug. "You are the best little brother in the whole world. I don't care if you eat rabbit food and listen to shitty music—you're the best."

"Can't…breathe here, Dean."

Dean didn't let go. If he did, his brother would see him crying.


End file.
